…. The casino did nothing, as they didn’t want to lose him. (TS was a common fixture at the tables.)

Anyhow, after a long day of losing, the casino told them they had a surprise for them in their suite. Upstairs they went and discovered three call girls. They each selected one, and the third said “What about me? What do I do?” Jimmy said, “Stand on the coffee table and sing God Bless America.” And so she did.

The Poker game in New Jersey was a good pot-limit game and moved around. I always loved Poker. Probably in my genes. After all, my great-grandfather, a wagon train driver, was shot dead in a Poker game.

Eventually it moved permanently to Jimmy’s house. I nearly always attended. One night I skipped. It was raided that night. Something like two dozen state and federal agents. No locals or they would have known in advance. The agents threw a trashcan through the picture window and entered from three points at once. One of the players, we called him “Honest John,” had a heart attack and was pronounced before reaching the hospital. That was the end of that game. (Of course, they were looking for something more than just a Poker game.)

I have no idea what the moral of this story is.

The Dealer

A friend of mine was playing Blackjack late at night, in the old days, with one other player at the table. The other player was the headliner in the casino’s main act. I don’t want to get in trouble, so we’ll just call him “Mr. Las Vegas.” Seated with Mr. LV was a non-playing companion. Every few minutes, the companion would slip one of Mr. LV’s black chips into her purse. This continued for about 30 minutes, after which they left. My friend looked at the dealer. The dealer shrugged, and said, “I just deal the cards.”

Generally, the dealer cares about the end of the shift and that’s about all. Don’t waste time trying to convince the dealer that you are not a counter. She doesn’t care. Worry about the pit boss and the eye-in-the-sky.

 © 2009 Norman Wattenberger